


The Better Man

by fruitwithteeth



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, No Explicit Sexual Content, Omorashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9903125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitwithteeth/pseuds/fruitwithteeth
Summary: Lance really needs to take a piss.





	

Lance loves the ocean. He loves water, really loves it. Loves to swim, listen to the waves, feel its coolness, loves to take a nice long drink after a long, exhausting training session, where he’s no doubt lost to Keith again.

Yup, water is great.

Lance really needs to take a piss.

“Keith, I need to take a piss,” he says.

Keith ignores him.

“Keith!” Lance shouts, from where he’s squirming in the seat next to the pilot. (Keith is the pilot of this pod. They’d wrestled over it, Keith won. Of course.) “I need to piss. I have to pee.”

Keith glances over at him. “So?”

Lance squeezes his legs together, his face twisting in affront. “So? So?! I really have to _go_.”

“Okay,” Keith says, supremely unconcerned. “You’ll go when we get to the castle ship.”

Lance closes his eyes and asks for patience. “I wouldn’t tell you if it weren’t an emergency, buddy, we’re not that-- look, I’d tell Hunk, yeah? I wouldn’t tell you.”

Keith says nothing.

Lance leans in toward Keith, close enough that his breath ruffles Keith’s hair when he says, “I _must_ urinate, Keith.”

“Oh my god!” Keith shouts, slapping Lance away. “Could you shut up? Just hold it in!”

Lance clamps his teeth down on his bottom lip as he gets pushed back by Keith’s slap. He tries to think of things that aren’t water or relief. Under his armor he feels sweaty. He’s got his hands between his thighs, squeezing his fingers tight. It helps to take his mind off the pressure, except now he’s thinking about the pressure again. It builds, it builds.

“Oh my god,” he moans. He can _feel_ the weight of his bladder, how it presses. “Keith, please, make a pit stop somewhere, oh my god.”

“Does it look like we’re on the Interstate?”

“As if I would ever go on a road trip with you,” Lance says. “Stop on a planet or something.”

“You know we can't do that,” Keith says, an undercurrent of smugness in his voice, eyes cutting toward Lance again. The guy just won't look him in the face sometimes. “We can't mess up our alliances and risk Voltron by landing on any planet we see without doing a background check. Especially not for a preschool reason.”

Lance knows his face must be an unflattering red, the color straining up his cheeks. Preschool, is it? Would a preschooler have been plied with the galactic version of coffee and other diuretics during a trades agreement? No, he doesn’t think so. He pulls his right hand out from in between his thighs and mimes a mouth flapping open and closed. “Bleh bleh bleh,” he says.

The pod jerks forward suddenly. Lance’s thighs press even closer together and his eyes bug out.

“Whoops,” Keith says, in a bland tone.

“You did that on purpose!” Lance shrieks, in a very masculine way, his heart hammering against his rib cage. Not because it was scary. Because it had nearly caused an accident. “Are you _trying_ to make me piss myself?”

“It would be funny,” Keith muses. “But why would I ever want to embarrass you when you do such a great job of it yourself? I’m innocent.” Keith actually has the gall to flutter his eyelashes, though it looks more like he’s rediscovering the function of his eyelids. When did he learn to be such a purposeful shit?

“I think Voltron’s best pilot can handle a turn,” Lance says. Lance intends to mock. Out of his mouth, though, it doesn't sound that mocking. It sounds like a compliment.

Keith says nothing, though from this angle Lance can see Keith’s cheek round out in what must be a smug smile.

Just figures. Keith can imply Lance is fit for preschool but Lance can't even manage to say anything without praising Keith. Must be amazing being a whiz kid.

Whiz… kid…

Lance squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lips. It's tempting to think of letting out just a little… a tiny bit… sure, his boxers would get a little damp but…

Oh god, he can't think like that. He doesn't think he could stop the stream if he ever started.

Sweat prickles on his forehead from stress. Lance gets up and starts peeling his armor off.

Keith actually turns away from the controls for a brief moment to send Lance a look of alarm. “What are you doing?”

“Too constricting,” Lance mutters, undoing the latches under his arms to get the chest plate off. It does help, now that there’s no hard edge digging into his abdomen.

Keith gapes at him.

“What?” Lance snaps.

Keith blinks, then, “Nothing.” He turns back to his controls, his shoulders hunched up.

There’s not much room to maneuver in the pod. Still, the temporary relief of standing has Lance hovering for a while, shifting from one foot to the other. His undershirt sticks to the small of his back, his boxers bunch up between his legs. Lance straightens out the fabric, then pinches himself for something to do.

“How much longer?” he asks.

“About ten minutes,” Keith says. “Dunno what that is in Altean time.”

Ten minutes feels like an insurmountable obstacle. Lance stretches. It doesn’t matter how he tries to trick his body, he can’t fool it into ignoring his bladder. He seats himself back next to Keith, carefully.

Keith turns a wide-eyed stare on Lance. “Do not pee on the seat.”

“Are you fucking with me?” Lance asks. “Am I a dog?”

Keith lowers his eyelashes, his gaze going judgemental. “Sometimes you make me think that would be an improvement.”

“God, what is your problem?” Lance mutters. “I’m trying my best here.”

Keith snorts. Out of generosity, Lance attributes it to the humor of the situation and not at Lance saying he’s trying his best. Lance counts the seconds-- the ticks? he thinks he may have messed up that inner calibration a long time ago-- to keep his mind occupied. There’s nothing else to do but wait.

“Are you touching yourself?” Keith asks.

Lance jerks in his seat, then grits his teeth. “What!” he shouts.

Keith points at Lance’s crotch. “Why’ve you got your hands there?”

“You _are_ fucking with me, aren’t you?” Lance says, wondrous. “Haven’t you ever had to hold it in? It helps, like, psychologically or something. Look, I don’t know, but no, I’m not friggin’ getting off right in front of you.”

Keith shrugs. Which, what is that supposed to mean? That Keith wouldn’t mind if Lance were getting off in front of him? And Keith hadn't even sounded disgusted when he'd asked! He’d sounded like he’d been asking about the weather!

So not much better. Impersonal is not much better than disgust, Lance reminds himself. It doesn’t stop the suddenly all-consuming thought of _jacking off in front of Keith_ , jesus. He can’t add getting hard to the mess that’s happening down there, right now. Whose genius idea was it to take off the armor?

“I really hate you,” Lance says.

“Uh huh,” Keith says.

The minutes drag on slowly, a sticky quality to them like they don’t want to give way to the next one. Lance thinks of thick honey, dripping off a spoon. Then he thinks of how water practically runs from place to place in comparison. How easily it flows, how easily it would--

The pod jerks again.

“Sorry, sorry,” Keith says in a rush, adjusting some controls. “I really didn’t--”

Lance doesn’t want him to look up. Lance has already jumped out of his seat, is trying to scramble back into his armor for some semblance of dignity, except everything’s a mess now, isn’t it? His face feels so hot, his hands so shaky, his soul so mortified.

At least he’d reacted in time to not actually get anything on the seat. A little victory.

“Lance?” he hears Keith say, so quietly.

Lance busies himself with picking up pieces of his armor. There’s a damp patch on his boxers, but his bladder still presses insistently against his insides. He’d proven himself wrong, in that he had managed to stop himself. Just, not fast enough, really.

“Lance?” Keith says again, this time from right in front of him.

Lance jerks back and drops the pieces of armor he’d been holding. “God, you’re stealthy,” he says. Lance can’t help it. He hides his crotch with his hands and feels juvenile about it.

“Uh, maybe,” Keith says, looking at him intensely.

Both he and Keith are crouched over in the awkward space behind the pod seats. Lance looks over at the controls, sees that the pod’s been put on auto-pilot. He doesn’t understand.

“I, uh,” Keith starts, his eyes shifting down. His hands reach out and tighten decisively on Lance’s forearms.

“What are you doing?” Lance squeaks out.

“Let me see,” Keith says, frowning, and tugging at Lance’s arms.

Lance makes a sound that can’t be classified. It’s like a dying cat meets a food processor meets a mortified man. He tries to step on Keith’s foot, except Keith is still in his armor and Lance isn’t.

“What?” Keith says. “I just wanna see.”

“Why?” Lance manages to ask, even as he gives up on fighting Keith. He lets his arms go limp.

“Oh,” Keith says, as he finally pulls Lance’s arms away. “You did.” He lets his hands drop.

Lance didn’t think it was possible to feel even more humiliated, but apparently it is. Under Keith’s weirdly intense scrutiny, Lance burns up. “Laugh it up,” Lance chokes out.

Keith looks back up, meeting Lance’s eyes. He looks flushed, as if he’s the one who wet himself. “I don’t want to laugh,” he says.

Lance sneers at him. “Oh, you’re the better man, are you?” Because sometimes Lance is honest with himself, and he knows he’d-- well, he’d piss himself laughing if he were in Keith’s place.

For some reason Keith looks cagey at being called the better man. “You, uh, you still have to go, don’t you? There’s not that much.”

Lance can feel a drop travelling down his leg, so as far as he’s concerned there is quite much. But it’s true that he still has to go, and it’s killing him.

“Just let it out,” Keith says. It sounds enticing, seductive, except Keith wouldn’t know seductive if it were a training bot that hit him square between the eyes, so it must be a mistake.

Lance gapes at him, lips parted in shock. When Keith stares back at him, Lance would swear it’s at his mouth. Lance clamps his mouth shut and looks away.

“You already,” Keith says, without finishing what would be a great statement, sure, “so you may as well.”

When Lance turns back to look at Keith it’s with narrowed eyes. There’s something happening in Keith’s mind, Lance decides. “Okay,” he says, words tripping over themselves, “but you know this means you can’t tell anyone.”

Keith glares at him. Lance will readily admit it now in this suddenly intimate space: it’s hot. “I wasn’t planning to,” Keith says.

Lance can’t look at Keith without reacting in another way. He closes his eyes, brings a hand to his hot face. His other hand grips at the fabric of his undershirt as he lets go.

It feels so good. His eyes roll back behind his eyelids and he bites his lip as he tries to stifle a groan. He could live in this feeling of relief if it weren’t also accompanied by the warm wetness spreading across his boxers, dripping down his legs. Oh, and the humiliation.

When it’s finally done, he stays still for a while. He thinks there’s probably a puddle under his feet. The air of the pod is cold against the wetness.

“They’re sticking to you,” Keith says, which makes no sense until Lance opens his eyes and follows Keith’s gaze to his boxers. They’re wet from the piss, which makes them cling obscenely to Lance’s crotch, to his thighs.

Lance swallows, a fresh wave of shame coming over him. It feels good, but that’s a thought for later. “Now what?” he asks.

It was maybe the wrong thing to say. Keith jerks back.

Lance sighs and removes his undershirt to mop himself and the floor up. “I’ll-- no,” he says, looking up from where he’s crouching, “ _we’ll_ clean this up properly once we’re at the castle ship. Tell them we were given some drinks or something and spilled them.”

“Right,” Keith says, not arguing on helping Lance with the clean up.

Which he shouldn’t, as far as Lance is concerned. ‘Just let it out,’ he’d said, in his stupid hoarse voice. Lance is going to turn that one over for a while.

Keith shuffles back to the pilot’s seat, switching the controls back to manual. Lance puts his armor back on, makes a disgusted face at the feel of it against his wet boxers. He balls up the undershirt and stuffs it into the space between the chest plate and his bare chest, makes another face at that.

“Gonna chafe like a motherfucker,” he says, as he sits back down. “How much time left?”

“About two minutes,” Keith says, busying himself with the controls.

Lance smirks. “You’re chafing too, huh?”

Keith won’t meet Lance’s eyes. His ears burn red, though, which is answer enough.


End file.
